


Beginnings

by The_Forgotten_Nobody



Series: Whumptober 2020 - The Old Guard [7]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Crusades, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Boys, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Forgotten_Nobody/pseuds/The_Forgotten_Nobody
Summary: Even with Nicolo frozen, not revealing himself, the man heads directly for his tent. Nicolo knows he ought to go for his sword, he ought to kill the man for daring to come for him here, but he doesn’t. As the man approaches, the blood on his clothing becomes clear. The exhaustion moving through his body and the desperation in his eyes is obvious.
Series: Whumptober 2020 - The Old Guard [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954123
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Beginnings

Nicolo cannot slip. This in itself is not a rarity. Ever since he first woke on the battlefield, bloodied but whole despite the sword he distinctly remembered running through him, sleep has not come easy to him. It had become even harder to hold onto when he discovered he was not alone. That he shared this curse with another man. So, no, sleep is not kind to Nicolo, but this time there is something else keeping him awake. Something beyond thoughts of endless years, of whether he is doing the right thing, of a man with dark skin and knowing eyes. What that thing is, Nicolo doesn’t know. 

Nicolo shifts once more beneath his threadbare blanket and huffs. This is hopeless. 

Nicolo slips the blanket off him and opens the flap to his tent. Since discovering his newfound immortality, Nicolo has begun to distance himself from his comrades, both on the field and in camp. He is not willing to discover what they’ll think of him if they find out what he has become. 

The air is still uncomfortably warm, even at night, but the sky is clear. Nicolo finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from the stars dotted around the glistening moon. Heaven is up there, or at least, that is what they believe. Will Nicolo ever be blessed to enter it? Even without the blood he has shed, is there a place for him still, or will he be bound to the Earth forever? An eternal punishment. 

Nicolo doesn’t know how long he spends staring at the sky, but suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He freezes, still fully hidden within his tent, and glances to the side. They are only a shadow, but a figure is approaching. Slow, but with purpose. Nicolo waits to see if he can distinguish whether they are friend or foe. 

Beneath the glow of the moonlight, the man’s features eventually emerge and the breath is stolen from Nicolo’s lungs.

It’s him. 

Even with Nicolo frozen, not revealing himself, the man heads directly for his tent. Nicolo knows he ought to go for his sword, he ought to kill the man for daring to come for him here, but he doesn’t. As the man approaches, the blood on his clothing becomes clear. The exhaustion moving through his body and the desperation in his eyes is obvious.

This is not a man who has come to kill Nicolo while he sleeps. What kind of man he  _ is,  _ Nicolo has yet to find out. 

When the Arab reaches Nicolo’s tent, he is unable to hide the surprise in his expression at seeing Nicolo there. To Nicolo’s own surprise, he drops to his knees and holds his hands together. 

“Please,” the Arab mumbles, eyes downcast. “I do not know...where else to go. Your men, they-”

It’s then that Nicolo hears it. In the distance, men are approaching. His men. He doesn’t recognise the voices, but he recognises the language. 

Nicolo doesn’t know why, but he grabs the Arab roughly and pulls him into his tent. He shuts it quickly, submerging them into darkness and, in a move perhaps more foolish than risky, he waits. 

Nicolo’s gamble pays off, and he isn’t immediately gutted. He can barely even hear the sound of the other man breathing as the words of his comrades become loud enough to make out. 

“Perhaps we have finally exorcised the demon!” He hears one of them say. Nicolo’s eyes widen and even though there is not enough light to even attempt to communicate with the man, he stares at his silhouette. 

“It is a shame,” another man says. Another voice Nicolo doesn’t recognise. There have been so many of them, coming to replace the fallen, that Nicolo now struggles to remember their names. His ability to care for them all has diminished along with his passion for the cause. “It seemed like a gift from above.” 

When their voices fade away, Nicolo finally lights a candle. Even now, he is still prepared to be attacked, but when the Muslim gets cast in the dim light of the candle, he begins to understand. While the man might not be visibly injured, he cannot stop shaking. His dark skin is pale, and his eyes, which had held so much determination, are now beginning to unfocus. He crouches low, wrapping his arms around his legs. Suddenly, Nicolo wonders how long he had been captured for. If he thinks about it, he has not seen the man for at least a few weeks. Normally, they do not spend longer than one without at least glimpsing each other.

“Drink,” Nicolo says, using the little Arabic he knows and passing over a waterskin. Over their acquaintance, they have shared broken phrases in each other’s language as they killed one another. Now, Nicolo wishes he had paid better attention. 

For a moment, Nicolo thinks the man has not heard him. Then, the water is taken quickly from him, and the man gulps it down greedily. Nicolo watches in silence as he finishes the last drop. 

“Bread?” Nicolo then offers, more out of curiosity than kindness, because everything about this encounter is strange. The man has not killed Nicolo, Nicolo has not killed the man. In fact, he is doing the complete opposite for reasons Nicolo cannot yet identify. 

The man takes the bread and eats; a slower pace than he drank the water. Once again, Nicolo watches. He observes the rise and fall of the Arab’s chest, the way his body begins to relax. He slumps, slightly, and Nicolo wonders what would happen if he reached out to him. Would the man come to his senses and attack? Or would he continue to let Nicolo help him? It almost seems like he had been looking for Nicolo, trusting that he would help him. 

Or, perhaps he hoped Nicolo would put him out of his misery, if only for a few hours. 

When the bread is gone, the man finally looks at Nicolo. His gaze holds more clarity now, and Nicolo stares back, uncertain where they stand now. 

“Yusuf,” the man says eventually. “Yusuf al-Kaysani.” 

When Nicolo tilts his head in confusion, the man repeats the words and points to himself. Understanding swiftly dawns. 

“Yusuf al-Kaysani” Nicolo repeats the name slowly. He doesn’t think he’s pronounced it right and is sure of it when the man-Yusuf, looks like he’s holding back a smile. 

“Nicolo Genovo,” Nicolo says, pointing to his chest. 

“Nicolo Genovo,” Yusuf repeats, his pronunciation frustratingly perfect. “Thank you.” 

Nicolo nods, all of a sudden feeling very uncomfortable. They do not tell each other their names, they do not thank each other. They kill each other. Since this curse befell him, that’s been his only constant. Should he kill Yusuf now? Now that he is relaxed, open to attack? 

He considers it, thinks about the dagger that lies beneath his blanket, but he finds he cannot do it. 

“What…,” Nicolo struggles to find the words. “We do?” 

“I do not know,” Yusuf says, or, at least, that’s what Nicolo thinks he says. Now that Nicolo knows where he himself stands on the killing matter, he’s curious to see what Yusuf thinks. He pulls his blanket towards him and reveals the dagger, looks between it and Yusuf meaningfully. 

A man of constant surprise, Yusuf turns his nose up at the object. “You helped me!” He says, almost indignantly. It makes Nicolo want to smile. 

“No killing? At all?” Nicolo checks. 

“No more,” Yusuf shakes his head. He glances up at Nicolo through his eyelashes. “Unless…,” he looks at the dagger, and back up to Nicolo. 

“No,” Nicolo says softly, covering the dagger back up. “No more.” 

Yusuf smiles at him then, and Nicolo realises it’s not an expression he’s seen the man wear. At most, he has seen a grin of victory but even that hadn’t felt...happy exactly. This smile...it makes something in Nicolo’s chest shift. 

“They kill you, if they see,” Nicolo says, gesturing to outside where the rest of his comrades lay. This night will not last forever and if someone spots Yusuf here, in his tent no less…

“I will leave,” Yusuf says, preparing to stand up, but Nicolo grabs his wrist to stop him. Tonight is a night of firsts, and this is the first time Nicolo has touched him. Part of him wondered whether it might do something, might reveal insight as to how they came to be, but nothing happens. It is only Nicolo holding onto warm, human skin.

“I will join. In case.” It is perhaps not the wisest course of action. If anyone sees him with Yusuf, he will either be expected to kill him or be branded a traitor. Neither option is particularly appealing, but he does not want to risk Yusuf getting captured again. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to the man, doesn’t have the words to ask or understand, but he knows he doesn’t want it to happen again. 

Yusuf looks at him thoughtfully, then nods.

Nicolo helps Yusuf escape the campsite undetected, walking with the man until they are far enough away that he feels comfortable leaving him to fend for himself. Though the promises they made could have only lasted for that one night, for the rest of the crusade, they do not kill each other again. 

After the crusade, they begin to kill for each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> I literally know nothing about the Crusades or anything about that time period. 
> 
> If you liked this, consider leaving a kudos or comment! :)


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